Dear Crossing (18 page)

“No kiddin’. Hey,” Waverly said, “how about detouring through a drive-thru on the way?”

“Can’t that wait?”

“Have a heart. Half a grapefruit, a poached egg and a piece of dry toast. That’s what I got for breakfast this morning. My wife’s become a food Nazi. If I don’t supplement what Phyllis feeds me, I’ll wind up looking like Fitzhugh.”

“Which one’s he?”

“You’ve seen him. He’s the guy who looks like a good fart would launch him off the ground like a jet pack.”

Ray laughed aloud. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. It felt good. “A quick stop won’t hurt, I guess. Are you about to pass out from hunger or do you think we can discuss Dana Danforth’s story on the way?”

“Trust me, for that, I’ll find the strength.”

25

Dana flung her coat on the couch. In a fit of anger, she took her high heels off and threw them across the room. A lamp took the hit, teetered and fell to the floor. For a moment, a freshly lit cigarette soothed her nerves.
Paul’s gonna pitch a fit. Well, screw him.
She decided it was only a matter of time before the cops found out about their relationship anyhow. As it was, she’d been surprised the secrecy surrounding their affair lasted as long as it had.

Dana took another drag of her cigarette, smiling at a happier thought. Nick, still enamored and deluded, didn’t have a clue she’d crossed him. He was still playing by her rules. He hadn’t contacted her by phone or in person since Valerie’s death—not even after his arrest. If he suspected she’d had a hand in singling him out, he’d have cracked like a peanut shell. Instead, he’d kept her out of it—hadn’t even risked drawing attention to her by calling her to bail him out. The thought of his devotion almost brought a tear to her eye.

Almost.

That they’d arrested him for assault rather than murder told her they didn’t have enough to charge him—yet. The loser wouldn’t even be behind bars if he hadn’t lost his temper and thrown a punch at that cop. Dana smiled. Nick’s naiveté was working to her advantage. As long as he was in the dark about being double-crossed, he wasn’t likely to turn on her. Ah, love.

Dana lit a second cigarette off the stub of the first before picking up the phone. She punched in the number of Paul’s private line.

“Hello.”

“Paul, it’s me.”

“I told you not to call,” he said. “I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t,” she said in a rush. “There’s something you need to know.”

“Make it fast.”

“The cops know about us.” The silence on the other end of the line grew more ominous with each passing moment. “Paul? Are you still there?”

“What the hell did you do, Dana?”

“Nothing. I—”

“Give me some time to reschedule a meeting. I’m coming over.”

There was no goodbye, just a click and the sound of dead silence.

Paul let himself in with his key and walked through Dana’s front door thirty minutes later.

Approaching with arms extended, Dana went to embrace him. “Paul, I’ve missed you so much.”

He walked past, brushing her aside. “What have you done? How did the police find out about us?”

“Paul, I didn’t do anything. They tracked me down and insisted on interviewing me.”

“Why? You had to have done something for them to have made the connection between us.”

“It had to be me, right? Well, lover, this time the credit’s all yours.”

“Not likely.”

“It’s a fact.” She glared at him. “That call you made from Widmer led them straight to me. Phone records, Paul.”

“Oh, Christ. What did you tell them?”

“I denied that we’re involved, but they weren’t buying it. It made more sense to admit it and try to salvage the situation.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I told them we were here together the night Valerie was killed.” The veins stood out on his brow. “Don’t you look at me that way, Paul. You ought to be kissing my feet. You needed an alibi, and I gave it to you.”

“Are you deaf or just plain stupid, Dana? How many times have I explained it to you? I told you to let me handle this my way. The last thing I need right now is for our names to be linked.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. They don’t plan to go public with the information.”

“They don’t plan on it? Is that supposed to be reassuring?” he asked. “My God.”

“I did the best I could. It’s your fault they put it together anyway. If you hadn’t run off to see your wife and then called me from Widmer the next day—”

“Let’s not go there, Dana.”

“Fine. Just keep it in mind, because all things considered, I think I did pretty well picking up the pieces.” Her tone softened. “Besides, I don’t want to argue, Paul. I’ve missed you.” She started toward him.

He moved away. “I’ve got to get back to the office before Chet starts to wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Chet again. Do you have any idea how sick I am of always coming in second to him?”

“At this point, do you honestly think I care?” With that, Paul turned and left.

Dana followed, landing a blow on her side of the door, wishing it had been Paul.
Better watch yourself, sweetheart. I know how to play hardball, too.

26

The following morning, Ray awoke feeling optimistic. The investigation was moving in a promising direction. Having wrung information from one of Nick Vincent’s neighbors, they’d gotten their search warrant. Now it was a matter of waiting for forensics to confirm it had paid off.

On the off chance they were wrong, Ray and Waverly were prepared to explore a new possibility. Dana Danforth had gone from loose end to potential suspect in the flick of a tongue—hers.

Ray’s cell phone vibrated as he scanned his notes at Waverly’s vacant desk. He answered, but Woody’s hello was drowned out by a loud, angry voice in the background. “I don’t give a damn,” Ray heard. “You want to borrow my tools? Fine, but remember to bring them back. And you still owe me for your girlfriend’s muffler. You’d better—” The voice trailed off as the speaker apparently moved away.

“Wait. What?” Ray said to Woody. “Where are you calling from?”

“Speltz’s garage.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Ray—”

“That guy needs anger management classes.”

“Ray, listen. We just towed Neil’s squad car in.”

“What did he do,” he said, remembering a prior incident, “take out another deer?”

“Listen, I…Shit. Ray…Neil’s dead.”

He felt as though he’d been thrust into a vacuum—the air sucked from his lungs.

“Are you there, Ray?”

Speaking took effort. “What happened?”

“A two-vehicle accident. A couple from out of town. Neil…He must’ve died instantly. The other driver didn’t make it to the hospital. The wife’s in serious condition.”

Ray forced himself to breathe. “How’d it happen?”

“We’re not sure yet. Once they let me into the woman’s room, I’m hoping she can tell me.”

“God. I can’t believe he’s…Holy…”

Emotion choked Woody’s voice as well. “Yeah, I know.”

“As soon as you find anything out, call me. Please.”

“I will. Ray, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up and dropped into a chair on the other side of Waverly’s desk.

Returning with a cup of coffee in each hand, Waverly set one in front of Ray. “Holy crap, buddy, you look like hell. You could at least try the coffee first.”

Ray bowed his head.

“Okay, seriously. What’s up?”

“A friend died in a car accident. I just got word.” In the time it took to tell Waverly what little he knew, Ray’s insides twisted into knots.

“Christ, that’s rough,” Waverly said. “I’m really sorry, Ray. Uh…Nick Vincent’s with his Public Defender. If you want to sit out of the interrogation, I don’t have a problem with that. You probably should. Why don’t you go back to your place and take some time to get your head straight.”

Ray stood and turned away. “Thanks, but I’m probably better off focusing on something else right now.
Anything
else.” He moved on in a hurry. “Who’s the PD?”

“Name’s McDonnell.”

“Is he any good?”

“I’ve seen him around. Our pal Nick could’ve done worse.”

Within the hour, Ray was coming to the same conclusion. The attorney sat alongside Nick Vincent, relaxed, confident. The dark-gray suit was in keeping with his Public Defender’s salary, but the sharp crease in the pants and shine on his shoes hinted at the thirtyish lawyer’s greater aspirations. What had started as a case of assault on a police officer had potentially catapulted him into a high-profile murder trial. He wasn’t complaining.

Ray continued his questioning. “We covered this ground before, Nick. We already told you there are witnesses who’ll swear you were in Widmer the day Valerie Davis was killed.”

McDonnell leaned against the back of his chair. “Who are these witnesses you’re talking about?”

“There’s the victim’s husband—”

Nick whispered something to his lawyer.

“Hold it, Detective Schiller,” McDonnell said. “The victim’s husband saw my client on Friday night, not Saturday. Who else?”

“There were others: the motel owner, the waitress at the restaurant where your client had lunch, Officer Lloyd, a fellow…” He couldn’t complete his thought. The pain was too fresh, too raw.

Waverly took over. “Neil Lloyd, an officer on the Widmer police force, sat next to your client at a lunch counter in Widmer Saturday afternoon.” Waverly didn’t bother to mention Neil’s sudden unavailability as a witness.

McDonnell smoothed the front of his robin’s-egg-blue shirt. “My client’s presence in Widmer is strictly coincidental. He had nothing to do with the killing.”

Nick slouched. “What’s the big deal anyway? Does being in Widmer make me a criminal?”

“No,” Waverly said, “but claiming you left early Saturday morning does make you a liar. It puts a huge ding in your credibility. And there’s your record to consider.”

“My record’s clean,” Nick argued. “Whatever you’ve got there is ancient history.”

Waverly thumbed through Nick’s file. “It’s been a while. Seven or eight years maybe, but it’s hardly what I’d call ancient, and it’s anything but clean. There’s the joy riding charge when you were eighteen, petty theft at nineteen—”

Blood rushed to Nick’s face.

“At twenty-one—” Waverly continued.

“That was on a dare.”

“Was killing Valerie Davis on a dare, too?” Ray asked.

“I didn’t lay a hand on her.”

“How about an axe?”

Nick started to rise, but his lawyer blocked him with an arm. “Officer Schiller, this line of questioning borders on harrassment. Mr. Vincent’s presence in Widmer, whatever the hour of day, isn’t enough to warrant an accusation of murder.”

“Right,” Waverly said, “but we have more. Forensic evidence proves your client wasn’t just in town, he was on the Davises’ property.”

Nick opened his mouth, but his lawyer hushed him. “What evidence?”

“Casts of your client’s boot prints outside the Davises’ home were made by the crime lab.”

“His alleged prints,” McDonnell pointed out.

“They’re consistent with his height, weight, even the limp resulting from the bike accident he had the night before.”

McDonnell flashed an indulgent smile. “That doesn’t conclusively rule out someone of the same general description and condition from having made those prints.”

“What are the odds?” Waverly said. “Never mind. The point is, the casts were good.
Very
good. Matching them to the boots we found in your client’s apartment shouldn’t present a problem.”

“Have you gotten those test results back yet?”

“Not yet, but I’ve got no doubt what the findings will be.”

The muscles in Nick’s jaws flexed. “You bastards had no right to take my stuff.”

“Shut up, Nick,” McDonnell told him. “I trust you had a valid search warrant?”

“Absolutely,” Waverly said.

“On what basis was it obtained?”

“The Widmer police received a call reporting a Harley coming out of the Davises’ driveway around 12:00 or 12:30 that morning.”

Nick shot to his feet. “That’s a lie.”

“Sit down,” McDonnell ordered.

“They’re lying through their teeth. They didn’t get a call like that. They couldn’t have. They’re trying to set me up.”

“Calm down, Nick.” A subtle ripple of apprehension bubbled closer to the lawyer’s calm, in-charge demeanor. “Who was this caller?”

“She insisted on remaining anonymous,” Ray told him.

“Well, gentlemen…an anonymous call. It won’t hold up in court. In fact, it’s ridiculous that a judge issued a search warrant based on something as flimsy as that.”

Waverly smiled. “The caller also furnished us with your client’s license plate number.”

McDonnell had to restrain Nick once more. “That’s still not enough for a warrant, Detective. A fleeting glance, a faulty memory…A number of issues might result in mistaken information.”

“We’re aware of that, so we got something more substantial.”

“Such as?”

“Eyewitness testimony. We canvassed residents of your client’s apartment building. One person saw him get back around 2:30 Sunday morning.” Waverly faced Nick. “He referred to you as a bloody mess. Later, the same witness saw you stuff the bloody clothes into a Dumpster in the alley.” He let the information sink in for a second. “You want to change your story, Nick? Cooperating could work to your advantage. How about it?”

“My clothes got bloody because of the bike accident. That’s the stuff I got rid of.”

“The way I heard it, it was your leg that got the worst of it. That wouldn’t explain the amount or location of the blood our witness claims to have seen. My guess is that yours wasn’t the only blood on that clothing.”

McDonnell ran a hand over his dark hair. “Have you recovered the discarded items?”

“Not yet,” Waverly said. “We’re working on it. But even if we never recover then, we have your client’s bloody boots.”

“Fuck you,” Nick shouted. “There’s no blood on them.”

“They cleaned up real nice, didn’t they? Too bad you missed a few drops of blood between the soles and leather uppers,” Waverly said. “I suppose you’re going to tell us that’s yours, too.”